The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

“Yes, but that twenty-five years is your whole term. And we’ve all got the full bobbin: twenty-five years. I’m just talking about how much time we’ve already done.”

“Holy Jesus . . . It’s terrible to think about it.”

“It’s nothing; we can bear it. Better you should drink tea. It’s sweet.”

This conversation took place in one of the barracks of the women’s camp at Vorkuta. Aleksandra Ivanovna was pouring tea into half-liter jars, and Anna Timofeevna, on whom the brand-new camp uniform still fit awkwardly, sat at a table in the middle of the barracks, along with Masha—a girl with long braids wrapped around her head, Ania—a woman of about thirty with cold eyes, and Aleksandra Ivanovna.

“Go ahead, Anna Timofeevna, I’ll just splash some in a little jar for you,” Masha says tenderly.

Anna Timofeevna is a small, plump woman of about fifty years. Her eyes are frightened, wary.

“Thank you kindly, little daughter. You were right. Tea is good for the nerves. And it warms you up well. While they were bringing me here, I froze like a dog.”

“Now, if you want to freeze, you just wait a little. The month of March— we consider that warm. We call it spring. You wait and see—you’ll change your tune come December.”

“What kind of spring is this, Anechka, thirty degrees below. I’m used to Rostov.”

“We were all used to it. It doesn’t matter—with the years and the intense cold you’ll get used to anything.”

“Stop it, Ania,” Masha said reproachfully, “This person is broken as it is, and you’re dealing the final blow.”

Anna Timofeevna looked at Masha with her eyes full of tears and in an unexpectedly low voice, so as not to let her weeping be heard, said, “You know, the main thing, girls, is that I am not guilty of anything. They sentenced me for no reason.”

“Here in this barrack alone there are a hundred and twenty of us, and every one, Anna Timofeevna, sits here for no reason; every one is innocent.”

“Listen, Ania, I beg you to stop, but if you can’t, then no one is keeping you here by force. You’ve finished your tea . . .” Aleksandra Ivanovna’s voice did not portend anything pleasant.

“All right, there’s other stuff to talk about. I’m going to the drying shed; there at least I’ll find people, not just sheared little sheep.”

Ania left. Anna Timofeevna sighed.

K. Vadot, The Terrorist

261

“People like that are so rude and so difficult. It’s enough to make you cry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Anna Timofeevna, everything will pass, like the white petals off the apple trees. So, which article did you get?”

“Fifty-eight, point eight.”

“Eighth point?” Masha looked through the steam from the tea at Anna Tim-ofeevna, whose legs didn’t reach the floor and who sat entirely childlike on her stool, and smiled involuntarily.

“Well, now, the eighth point, that’s for terrorism, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Anna Timofeevna said in a hushed voice.

“Well how about that! A nice terrorist indeed.”

“Ah, girls, as I told you, this business of mine is very distressing. This is why I’m so nervous and lost. It would be a sin for me to complain about my life. I worked as head midwife at a maternity home. And the pay was good, thank God. Thirty years of service and no one stinted on the presents. And on the side, sometimes you would get to do an abortion. And I had a little apartment; any one would love to have the likes of it. I even picked up matching furniture. And my neighbor wasn’t too bad. But now look at me: I have nothing. I sit here at the edge of the world and drink someone else’s tea out of a half-liter jar, and thanks be to those who gave it to me.”

“I sympathize with you completely, but all the same, what has this got to do with terrorism? Because, excuse me, but making a terrorist out of you is like making bullets out of sh-t.”

“I see that you’re both kind women. I’ll tell you only but, God forbid, don’t tell anyone else or people will indeed be frightened of me.”

“Our kind isn’t timid. What did you do, cut someone’s throat?”

“Listen to you! I used to have to get my neighbor to slaughter my chickens for me. I could never cut someone’s throat. Oi, girls, it’s terrible to say—I am in prison on account of Stalin. . . .Well, as I said, I was managing just fine; I couldn’t ask for much more. I was respected and everyone treated me with deference. But there was one fellow in our town, a driver. An attractive blond, tall, intelligent, well-read, and in general pleasant. He wanted to become a pilot, only the entrance exam was very difficult, and he didn’t pass. So, he worked as a driver. Pilot or not, he still gets to hang around motors. And so this Lenia [diminutive for Leonid] suddenly went to war and only returned last year.